Twice the tribute, twice the bloodshed
by LivetoLovetoRock
Summary: A Hunger Games fanfic about conjoined twins Traena and Tarqua Serfman, who are reaped for the 47th Hunger Games from District 10.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is my very first fanfic ever, so go easy on me! I absolutely LOVE the Hunger Games and the idea for this came to me whilst reading another (admittedly rather boring) fanfic, and I thought I'd give it a go :)**  
><strong>If you think it's crap, I honestly won't mind. Just write me a review telling me what's wrong, and I'll see if I can fix it :) Any ideas you may have for future events based on the basic details given here would be very much appreaciated too! Thanks! :3<strong>

*Traena's Point Of View*

Reaping Day in the country of Panem. A day of relief for most, but for two families in each district, the beginning of living hell. I was unlucky really; living in the smallest district in the whole of Panem meant that my chances of being reaped were larger than most. Larger than most, but not likely still. At least I hadn't had to apply for tesserae, my family managed to get by without the grain and oil by selling the manure produced by the cows. I knew that if I ever was reaped, I would never survive. I know what you're thinking, everyone has a chance, everyone has a defining skill. But I don't. You see, I'm a conjoined twin. My brother, Tarqua and I have been literally joined at the hip since birth. That means two sets of arms and legs, two hearts, two sets of lungs, but only three hips between us, the middle hip being a strange sort of double-socket. I know what you're thinking. 'Ew, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard'. I know, I've heard it all before, from pretty much every person I've ever met since we were born. I even catch our own mother looking at us sometimes, her deep sea green eyes plundering the depths of how she could have possibly produced such a monstrosity. People don't ever seem to consider the fact that it's hard for me too, and not just the mobility issues. What with me being a girl and my twin being a boy, puberty's been an interesting struggle. Somehow, even though we're similar in looks, he gets so much more attention from the opposite sex. The deep, husky grey eyes that seemed to illuminate his face only made mine look washed out and pale, his silvery blonde hair cut into short bristles accentuates the beautiful structure of his jaw, whereas my long sheet of pale gold hair hangs limply at my sides. It had always been this way; him getting all the attention for being the smartest, the strongest, the most caring of us. People in the District would often give him pieces of leftover meat or bruised fruit if he were passing, but never to me. I live my life as the forgotten twin; the accident. Suddenly, I was sick of this. Sick of lying here on a shabby old straw mattress, trying not to wake my brother. I trashed out with my left leg, freeing it from the bedclothes it had become entwined in.  
>'Traenaaaaaa' he moaned as he slowly gained consciousness.<br>'Get up. We'll be needed to milk the cows soon.' I replied harshly, though I knew I was being unfair, as it had been my own foul thoughts that had put me in this mood, nothing he could have helped.  
>Milking cows. The most dull, monotone job in the whole of District 10. It was the only job we could do though. We couldn't lift hay, as lifting was awkward and difficult due to both of us having the arm on the side closest to each other being weak and barely functional enough to lift a water jug, let alone lug heavy bales of hay. We couldn't herd animals as we couldn't run fast enough to be able to catch any escapees. So we were subjected to milking cows, where all we get to do all day is stare at a cow's back end. Nose plugs needed for amateurs. It's also the only job that still has to be done on Reaping Day. Cows don't care about the reaping, all they know is if they aren't milked, they aren't going to be happy.<p>

As we stood in the Town Square, awaiting the choosing of the names, the usual ominous feeling passed in the air between the people, packed tightly into the small space. A familiar 'clack stomp clack stomp' could be heard as District 10's announcer mounted the small stage that had been hastily erected in the middle of the square. Darrel Krump never seemed to realise that the boots he wore to every reaping had had a metal drawing pin stuck in the toe ever since I could remember.  
>'Let's get this over with, shall we?' he said gruffly, his voice barely audible despite the complicated system of microphones that had been rigged all over town, so that no matter where you were, you could not escape the games.<br>'The female tribute for the 47th annual Hunger Games' he mumbled, his voice snagging on the last syllable, 'is Martola Eschowitz'  
>A faint cry escaped from the collective mouth of the crowd, as it always did when a twelve year old was selected. This was followed by the usual denial, weeping, and then silent rage felt by the family of the selected tribute.<br>'And the male tribute' a pause as he fumbled with the slip of paper, seeming to disbelieve the words written on its grubby surface 'T-T-Tarqua Serfman' he gulped.  
>And before I knew what was happening, me and my brother were being hurled onto the stage, the lights blinding me, cutting off the last view I would ever have of the people I cared for.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

As we were dragged onto the train leaving for the Capitol, I was vaguely aware of my mother and father, both lying on the floor of the Town Centre, their bodies convulsing with heart stricken sobs. That sight brought me to my senses, and I began to assist my brother in our struggle to see our parents, just one more time. We eventually broke free of the guards and sprinted to where our parents lay, our feet stumbling, sweat gathering at the nape of our necks from the effort of keeping upright. When we eventually reached them, I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my mother's hands, feeling something soft nestled inside them. It was a teddy bear, made by my grandmother before she died, for me and my brother. But it wasn't an ordinary teddy bear, it was a male and a female teddy bear (identifiable by the pink and blue bows sitting atop their respective heads), fused at the hips by a lump of wonky stitching. It wasn't much, but it was the last time I ever saw her before she was taken by the Capitol. We never found out what happened to her. Dead, most likely. And all for selling a rusty old pickaxe to a farmer that she didn't need any more. It was meant to make us feel better about ourselves, like we weren't so different after all. I felt a warmth spreading through my crippled arm, a warm I usually associated with sitting by the fire at Granny's house, toasting nuts and telling far-fetched stories of a far-off land called the Capitol. I knew Tarqua was feeling the same, as he turned to me and linked his withered arm in mine. We stood and marched towards the train station, our heads held high against the swirling fog around our ankles, not allowing the tears to drip down our faces. We would be strong. We would die with dignity.

The steady rumble of the train's mechanism seemed to rhythmically slide the days travelling to the Capitol away. The only part that I remembered was meeting our mentor, Steron. A tall, strong man, I remembered him having won his games about five years ago, using the repulsive snake like Muttations from the Capitol, using their superior sense of smell to find himself food. Somehow, he had a way of speaking to them. Soothing them, becoming their friend, and then playing them to his advantages. Just as he had a way of doing with his tributes.

When we eventually arrived at the Capitol, we were taken straight to a large, cold room painted a bright white. The lights in here were so bright they were blinding, and lining cabinets along the walls of the room were what appeared to me to be instruments of torture. At a closer look, I could identify some of them as products used in the cosmetic industry. Gadgets to remove hair, wax legs, moisturise skin or even replace it, and many more I couldn't even begin to comprehend. As soon as the beauticians from the Capitol laid eyes on us, I knew what we were. We were the next big project, a hurdle to overcome, something to brag about once they'd achieved perfection. Perfection. The very thought made my stomach turn. The thought that one human being could be better than another just because of the way that they appeared on the outside. It was exactly the same sort of thing people did with me and my brother, and it made my skin crawl.  
>Around an hour into our treatment, I heard a sigh from my left, and I turned my head to see my brother, lying comfortably on his side of the table, his treatments all finished. He looked almost the same, just slightly more polished and tidy.<br>'Oi, lady!' I bellowed across the room to the woman who had previously been waxing my eyebrows but was now pouring some strange liquid into a large bottle, 'am I nearly done yet?'  
>'No. You need a LOT more work yet, young lady!' she replied, frowning at my rudeness and lack of gratitude.<br>'Why does he get to be done already then?' I asked. As always, when I'm annoyed, any male being automatically becomes 'he', as if the word is poison.  
>'Because <em>he<em>' she spat 'is a natural beauty phenomenon. Just look at that bone structure! Whereas you' she said, emphasising it by slapping more of a gel like brown substance on my legs, which smelt of tar 'are _far_ from that' and ripped a piece of cotton off my legs, taking all the hair with it. A hissed swearword escaped from between my lips, a chuckle was heard from the doorway. I looked up, ready to give the person some strong verbal abuse, when I saw it was Steron. I looked into his dark green eyes, and was about to speak, when I saw what he was holding in his hand. It was our costume for the opening ceremony. It was moving, with the motion of hundreds of tiny snakes, all wriggling around across the dark surface of the garment.


End file.
